


The Fics that Launched Red Sky

by UnderCoverMarsupial



Category: Under Red Sky
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Plug, Bondage, Dirty Talk, F/M, Gags, Glory Hole, Hangover, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Mention - Freeform, NSFW Art, Possessive Behavior, Public Nudity, Public Scene, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderCoverMarsupial/pseuds/UnderCoverMarsupial
Summary: In 2018 my friends and I were happily creating star wars fanfiction. SunsetOfDoom had a MaulxObiWanxSatine AU that I casually toyed with- as one does. But then this happened. And here we are, 2021, and there is a whole book out, Called Under Red Sky- The Boss. Its the first in a Series and while it is no longer connected to its fanfic roots, there are some little glimpses that serve as easter eggs for everyone who was in on those early jokes.To my new readers: none of this is canon. The implied story was that instead of a HEA at the end of The Boss, Nick gets taken by CIA and escapes- only to return to the USA, leaving Graves behind. Awful.CHAPTER 3 HAS NSFW ART!(its old and its before I did my research/sensitivity readers for his tattoos. So they are stylistically wrong AF!)
Relationships: Nelson Graves/Nick Erickson, Nelson Graves/Nick Erickson/Jeanne Kyaw, Nick Erickson/Jeanne Kyaw
Kudos: 3





	1. Getting Him Back

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kinktober 2018](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16171115) by [UnderCoverMarsupial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderCoverMarsupial/pseuds/UnderCoverMarsupial). 



Chapter Text

Nick Erickson was a respectable person. He got up in the morning and put on his suit and walked to work, stopping to get coffee and the Globe. He got to the office on time, turned his reports in on time and was a respected, upright, decent person. Reliable. Steady. Conventional. Which is why, when the long black limo glided up beside him on his walk to work his heart sank all the way down to his sensible shoes.

The window slid down with a soft hum, wafting the smell of opium, champagne and sex into the cold air. Jeanne Kyaw leaned out and smiled. Nick knew that smile. It was slow and toothy and made her look like a cat watching a mouse. Which she was.

“Hello, darling,” she said. Nick let out a huff of air, making a white cloud around his face. She was wearing some kind of pearly white silk sheath with fine spaghetti straps, one of which was hanging off her shoulder. She rested her forearms on the windowsill and looked Nick up and down. No doubt perfectly aware that the sight of her pale breast hanging free in her top was sounding alarms through his whole body. Nick would bet anything she wore no undergarments at all. Her artful twenties’ coiffe was coming undone, little coils slipping free. It was five AM and Nick would also bet she was just getting her second wind. She was stunning. As always.

“Hello Jeanne,” Nick said politely, clutching the handle of his briefcase like a soldier settling his grip on a sword hilt.

“Well, aren’t you going to give me a kiss?” she said, leaning forward a little and raising her face. Her throat was a creamy column from the shell of her ears, down the fine tendon to the warm divot between her clavicles. Nick struggled for the barest moment before leaning in and kissing her cheek. She was wearing a ruby the size of a robin’s egg on a chain of diamonds. Nick drew in a deep breath when he saw it. The smell of opium and expensive coffee rolled into his senses. The ruby, the opium, it only meant one thing. Or rather, one person.

“Hello, baby boy.”

Graves. He was sprawled back on the opposite seat from Jeanne. Nick swallowed. Graves was wearing a tuxedo, bowtie loose and top buttons unbuttoned. The tattoos on his face somehow went perfectly well with the crisp white shirt. He was sipping what was certainly espresso out of a tiny porcelain cup, the saucer abandoned on the seat beside him. Of course they were together. Of course. And of course they came looking for him. The third side of their little on-again off-again triangle.

“I have to go to work,” Nick said, stepping back to the sidewalk. He turned and started walking but his heart sank when the limo simply crawled along beside him. Jeanne pouted.

“Oh but darling, surely you can miss a day and come with us,” she said. “Please? I miss you. I want to lick every one of those little freckles of yours...”

Nick looked away. He took a sip of his coffee to try and cover his blush. But now that he had smelled real coffee, the kind of expensive single origin Indonesian roast Graves favored, his dunkin donuts tasted like diesel fuel in his mouth. He threw it into the next bin he passed.

“I don’t have time for this!” he said. “I can’t simply miss work. I have responsibilities!”

“What _are_ those? Remind me again?” Graves drawled. He had finished his coffee and sat up, looking at Nick as he planted kisses on Jeanne’s elbow. His bald head caught the shift in early morning light, making his amber eyes gleam.

“Surely your only real responsibility is to let Jeanne lick your freckles,” he said.

Nick shot The Compte of Diarmuid et Cuylon a dirty look. Graves grinned, his facial tattoos shifting in a way that should have been terrifying but instead made Nick’s feet drag as he walked. That smile… _No. I am not that man anymore. I am an adult. I am doing well. I am moving on. I’m an assistant manager now._

“Nick? What are you wearing?” Graves asked and Nick winced. _Oh here we go._

“If you needed a suit you know you should have called me,” Graves said reproachfully. “My tailor has all your measurements. I’m disappointed. You know I love putting you in beautiful things,” he purred. Jeanne laughed at Nick’s expression.

“You know he just wants to take care of you, Nick,” she said. “We both do.” Her voice dropped into the husky lower register she used in the bedroom and Nick stumbled.

“Won’t you please let me take care of you Nick?” she asked. “Graves isn’t the only one who wants to dress you up. I still have those pretty blue panties you wore to the New Years Ball in Hong Kong.”

Nick glanced up and down the street but at this hour there was no-one out. He swallowed. Memories of the ball flashing in his mind, his skin stinging and red from Jeanne’s crop, the little lace panties barely holding his erection as Graves collared him. Rubies of course. With Graves it was always rubies. He never wore them himself, but tended to drape his lovers in them. The choker had been as wide as Graves’s palm and shone like a bloody star. What a night that had been.

“He’s thinking about it,” Graves said, resting his chin on Jeanne’s shoulder. She nodded.

“I can tell,” she said. “He is remembering me beating him in front of all those people. Remembering how he came all over the floor.”

“You blush so prettily,” Graves said. “I hope you’re remembering you and I that night too… You were such a very good boy for me.” Nick was sweating. He glanced at them, saw the ring of tattoos on Graves’ collarbones. Remembered how Graves had used him, made him beg… _shit shit no. no. I am a respectable adult._

“Do you remember Singapore, Nick?” Graves said. Jeanne laughed, a high tinkling sound of pure joy that froze Nick in his tracks.

“Please,” he whispered. They had all _met_ in Singapore.

“Gods you were like silk the first time I took you,” Graves continued and Nick squeezed his eyes shut. “So tight I was sore for a week.” Graves’s voice was low, the English boarding school accent was slurring, getting closer to his New Zealand roots. “But I couldn't keep my hands off of you. I’ve never been so infatuated in my life. Followed him around like a dog didn't I, Jeanne?”

Jeanne laughed again.

“I couldn't believe it- Lord Graves, Head of Scimitar Shipping, Baron of Cuylon, stalking some little flunkie from the Embassy. Poor Nick, more contracts were taken out on your life that night than for anything you did in Laos!”

Nick couldn't help but smile. He had been like Alice stepping through the looking glass. One day he was eating cold noodles from a cart outside his bare little studio, the next he had been in the private jet of Duchess Jeanne Kyaw, Asian Peace Prize winner and heiress of Mandalay.

“You wore the most awful suit then too,” she said. “Thank goodness Graves came.”

And then Graves. And that was when things fell off the cliff for Nick Erickson. It was one thing to be seen and photographed on the arm of someone like San Soe Jeanne Kyaw, necking like teenagers at Princess Amidala’s gala. It was another thing altogether to be with Nelson Graves, the most notorious crime boss in SE Asia. Opium, Rubies, Weapons - The Butcher of Bankat Straights - Nick had lost his security clearance and job in one fell swoop. He would have been hauled in to a CIA black site if Red Sky hadn’t snatched him up just before the convoy reached the camp.

He should have regretted it. Should have hated them for the consequences of those weeks together. But he couldn’t. And so for the last three years, Jeanne and Graves managed to find him whenever they wanted. London, DC, and here, now.

“Beautiful boy, don’t make me beg,” Graves said. His voice rumbled and Nick was being dragged through his memories. Graves had been his first, his only same-sex relationship. By the end of the first week Nick had been crazed with lust, his conservative midwestern upbringing thrown right out the window. He would have done anything for Graves. Jeanne he loved as the great romance of his life. Graves was the other side of the coin. Lust, submission, ownership. Nick shook his head to clear it.

“Just seeing him like this is making me wet, Graves,” Jeanne said conversationally. “How can we possibly live without him?”

“I can’t. That’s why I come crawling to these disgusting slums every few months,” Graves grumbled. Nick fought off a smile. Slum? This was one of the nicest neighborhoods in Boston, beautiful Georgian homes on stately colonial streets. But to Graves, who lived in marble palaces with literal peacocks….

“Do you know he made me chase him to- what was that awful place, little one?”

“Minneapolis,” Nick muttered.

“Minn-ee-ohpliss,” Graves said. “Disgusting. I stayed in a Hilton, Jeanne. A Hilton.” He winked at Nick who looked up at the grey sky, fighting a smile. “All just so I could taste that soft little ass of his.”

“A terrible sacrifice I am sure,” Jeanne said with a laugh. “Though I agree his ass is delicious. And he moves it so beautifully.” Graves hummed in agreement.

“Nick please get in the car. You don’t need to work. You don’t need to be _responsible_ ,” Graves said. “I can take care of you, we both can.” His voice was getting that rough edge. The tone that expected obedience. He was still being polite. And if Nick turned them down Graves would never force himself on Nick. But if Nick got in that limo? Then he was theirs. He was Graves and Jeanne’s sweet boy, draped in rubies and lace, swallowing Graves’s fat cock while Jeanne slapped his ass and opened him on her art deco silicone toy collection. Spoiled and pampered and _kept_.

“Nick, darling,” Jeanne said. “Please? I want those pretty lips on my clit.” Nick was suddenly angry. Angry because he was considering it. He was seriously considering it. He was that hooked. But their world wasn’t real! It didn't exist for people like Nick Erickson. He was just a nice boy from Minneapolis, with a steady City job. Nice boys from Minneapolis didn't live in marble palaces in the jungles of Myanmar, or the high-ceilinged salons of Paris. They weren’t led around on a gold leash wearing a ruby collar, being loved and petted and spoiled. They weren’t allowed that level of happiness or freedom.

“This is all bullshit! You don’t _really_ love me! I’m just some idiot you snatched in Huay Xai for fun!” Nick shouted. “This isn’t about me! I’m just a game to you!” He was clenching both his fists, his briefcase forgotten on the ground. “What am I supposed to do? What if you get bored? What if you find another boy you can fuck and play with? There isn’t anything special about me! What if-”

Graves was out of the limo so fast that Jeanne nearly fell out. The driver, a giant bear of a man with the same Maori face tattoos as Graves stopped the limo and jumped out, his hand under his jacket, eyes scanning the street nervously. But Nick only had a moment to notice before Graves had him crowded against the construction fence behind him.

“You think this is a _game_ to me?” Graves said in a low snarl. “Do you know what happens if Interpol knows I am here? Do you know what happens to Jeanne? Do you know the risk that attachment brings me?”

Nick felt tears welling in his eyes. This was his deepest fear. The fact that it might _not_ be a game. That it might be real. Because then what?

Anger was radiating off Graves like an oven. He punched the wall behind Nick hard enough to shatter the wood. Jeanne came up beside them.

“Nick, we speak lightly, but he is right,” she said softly. Neither of them were touching him, and even in his rage Graves didn't box Nick all the way in. He was allowed to decide.

“I don’t know… I am trying to be... better, more responsible… for myself,” Nick said. _Less of a pathetic little whore for you two. For whatever that’s gotten me._ Graves backed up, his face etched with pain. He strode back to the limo and got in, sitting in the doorway with his head in his hands. Nick scrubbed the tears on his face.

“He went mad when you were taken Nick,” Jeanne said. “You know I love you; you know I always will. But he loves you too. I have never seen him so angry. He really would take care of you forever if you let him. If you let us.”

Nick’s body sagged and his head dropped. His heart was pounding, tearing up in his chest. _Loves me? He loves me. She loves me. Oh God._ The tears came and Nick covered his face.

“My beautiful, sweet Nick,” Jeanne murmured, still not touching him. “Our soft sweet boy…”

Nick stepped away from her. Graves was staring at him, waiting. Slowly Nick crouched by his briefcase. He opened it and took out a pen and a dry-cleaning receipt. That and a take-out menu were the only things in the case. He scribbled an address at the top. After a moment’s hesitation, he wrote.

_I have decided to leave for another opportunity. I am safe and happy. -Nick Erickson_

Nick stood and walked to the driver, who was still scanning the street, hand on the hilt of the big .45 under his arm.

“Could you see this delivered, please?” he asked. The driver took the note and tucked it away. Then Nick turned to Graves. The head of Red Sky’s face was closed tight. But he stood up and held out his hand to Jeanne. She came and wrapped an arm around him and leaned her head on his shoulder. Then Graves held out his other hand to Nick.

“Come on, lovely boy. Let’s get out of here,” Graves said.


	2. Make Him Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a continuation of chapter one.

A continuation of this real word AU- which has stolen my WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE

### Chapter Text

Nick had forgotten the heat. The jungle exhaled continuously shifting clouds until it was hard to tell if it was raining or not. Every part of his body was slick with sweat. If he concentrated, he could separate the sounds of rain drops off the veranda roof from the drops of his own sweat dripping onto the wide teak boards beneath him. But that was too much effort, it was too far away in the steady hum of his mind. Equally far away was the sense that his knees hurt and that his shoulders were stiff. He didn't know how long he had been tied here, kneeling by Jeanne’s feet, but the time didn't matter.

His eyes were covered by a silk cloth, tied tightly behind his head. It sharpened his other senses. Along with the sounds of rain and birds came the scratch of Jeanne’s pen on paper and the occasional clink of her teacup against the saucer. Reassuring sounds. But his sense of smell was most of his focus now. The air was redolent with the smells of flowers and green growing things that blew in on successive waves of wet air. Over it all wafted the smell of Jeanne’s afternoon tea, and the marzipan of the little cakes she loved. The ever-present smell of opium, pungent and sweet, somehow complemented the smell of sweat, his own and Jeanne’s. All together Nick thought this was the smell of perfect contentment.

Almost perfect.

He let out a tiny sigh without meaning to, but Jeanne heard him. Her hand touched his face and she made a sympathetic noise.

“Don’t worry dear one, he’ll be back soon.”

Nick twisted his head and kissed her palm before settling back down again. A breath of wind came through, cooling Nick’s feverish skin. He felt a cup pressed to his lips and drank deeply. Jeanne’s light herbal tea was still cool from its ice bath. When she pulled the cup away Nick licked his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat. It was so _hot_ …

He was nearly asleep, breathing deeply, listening to the jungle around them when he heard the one sound he had been waiting for: the crunching of tires on gravel. Graves. His convoy of up-armored SUV’s was pulling up to the mansion. Nick couldn't help it, he moaned faintly, turning his head in the direction like a questing hound. The sounds of doors opening and closing, shouted voices and footsteps were a distant chaos- and not what Nick was listening for.

There. One set of footsteps, and one voice- the continuous low growl in a mix of Cantonese and Malay, that meant Graves was on his phone.

The door opened with a shift of air and Nick smelled coffee, opium and the terrifying smell of black powder, gun oil, maybe blood? That was likely his imagination. But the smell of the big gun Graves carried under his arm meant there had been trouble, trouble serious enough that Graves himself had waded into the fight.

Nick’s heart was in his throat. He didn't move, but he was trembling, all his peaceful thoughts gone. Now he felt his aching knees, his tense shoulders, the stretch in his thighs. He wanted to ask but didn't dare. An involuntary whine left his mouth and he bit his lip, wishing he hadn’t drawn that attention to himself.

“He has been pining for you,” Jeanne said. The long silence meant Graves was looking at him. What did he see? Nick didn't know what to do. He wanted to see suddenly, desperately wanted to see Graves’s face. He shifted, anxiety making him shudder. The light chains around his wrists and ankles clinked and chimed against the wood floor as he moved.

He was just beginning to feel real fear at the silence when the Master of Red Sky’s hand slid down his face and under his chin, lifting his face up. Graves’s thumb stroked over Nick’s cheek and he turned to kiss it, kiss any part he could reach. He sucked Graves’s thumb into his mouth, stroking his tongue on the calloused underside.

He had not been imagining the smell of blood. His nose was right against the cuff of Graves’s shirt and the smell of blood there was almost overwhelming. Nick could taste the gun oil on Graves’s thumb, smell it in his palm. But the blood was stronger. Nick let out a low worried moan and lifted his face off the thumb, trying to stretch his neck up to where Graves must be.

Graves’s fingers closed on his jaw like a vise, stilling him instantly.

“Get him ready for me, Jeanne,” he growled and Nick sucked in a breath. “Get him ready and send him to me.” Graves’s voice sounded strained.

“Of course darling,” she said. Nick heard them kissing, their murmured endearments to each other. The heavy tread of Graves leaving- heading for his suite.

-0-0-0-0-

She held up the collar. It draped over and between her fingers like a pool of blood. Which considering where the rubies were from, was not far from the truth. The diamonds interspaced among them sent sparks of light against Jeanne’s hand.

Nick, already approaching his emotional edge, looked away for a moment. The smell of blood was still in his nose and he breathed deep in the wet air to dispel it.

“He kept it,” he said. It was all he could manage to say, summing up the entirety of how they had separated. All the regret, the suddenness of the loss.

“Of course,” Jeanne said. “Turn for me.”

It was cold against his throat, contrasting with Jeanne’s warm fingers. When he swallowed it constrained him, held him. He shivered, then sighed as the gold settings warmed against his skin. Now it felt like a hand. _His_ hand of course, the exact width of Graves’s palm.

“Lovely, now open your mouth, little one,” she said.

She was holding a gag. The straps were black leather, finely stitched, soft and supple. Instead of a ball there was a wide phallic shape, not quite realistic, but unmistakable anyway. It was black as well, with a deep red iridescence.

Jeanne brought it to his lips and he closed his eyes. He kept his jaw and mouth slack, allowing the soft silicone to open his mouth as Jeanne eased it in.

He whined as she adjusted the strap around his head, tight - _too big_ , _too big_

“No baby,” she said, “it’s just the right size.”

He swallowed, choked slightly, whining and shaking his head. He sucked at it, swallowed again and felt his throat adjust. Barely.

“Good boy, that’s it,” Jeanne said.

She replaced the simple binds of his wrists with wide cuffs in the same fine black leather. There was a matching pair for his ankles as well. As she buckled them on she looked up at him and smiled. Nick was forcibly reminded of the first time she had tied him up like this. _I trust you._ He thought, hoping to convey the message with his eyes, the stoop of his shoulders. _I trust you and I love you._

Her smile became more secretive and she nodded her head.

“And I love you dear one. Now let’s make you beautiful.”

More chains, shimmering with jewels, hung from the collar by delicate little clips. They slid like water through the rings in his nipples and slithered down his abdomen. Jeanne’s hands were moving quickly, deftly clipping the chains to the ring around Nick’s cock and under his balls. The scrape of her nails against his perineum made him shudder. The chains clipped again to the base of the plug in Nick’s ass and then up the center of his back to the ruby collar. As they tugged he squeezed the plug. He loved it, loved how soft it was. It was still slick and mobile inside him, holding his swollen hole open.

“There now, how is that?” Jeanne asked, standing back.

In the mirror he looked otherworldly, draped in gold chains, the gag in his mouth forcing his lips out, wet and shining. His skin glowed with sweat. The red stones at his throat glittered and shone.

“Beautiful boy,” Jeanne said and kissed his cheek. “Do you want to please him?

 _Yes god yes_

“Good. He needs you now, he needs you to please him.”

She lowered his hands and placed them in the small of his back, The bracelets clipped together there. It forced Nick’s chest forward. The little jeweled chains clinked as he moved.

Jeanne put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him in the mirror.

“Come then,” she said. “Let’s go take his mind off things…”


	3. Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when this was supposed to take place. But it's easy to imagine a party for Graves' rugby club getting wildly out of hand and to imagine Nick flirting with everyone.

The sun was a dagger. It pierced Lord Graves’ skull and forced him to roll over, an action that made his stomach roll right along with him. He swallowed. Or tried to- his mouth was full of wool.

“I’m too old for this,” he groaned. When was the last time he had a hangover like this? He reached for his glasses. Where was he? He looked around the room as the night before came back to him. The team owners' party. The beach, yes, hakas on the beach with the team from New Caledonia- bloody hell. No wonder his knee hurt. Had he played? Yes, he had. Bloody Hell. Anatoly had tackled him so hard he fell into the sea. Shit. _Fell into the sea in a custom suit. Christ my valet will kill me. How many suits did we ruin?_

He sat up carefully and sank his head into his hands. Someone had stripped him.

 _No, I did. I went back to the party in nothing but shorts. Gabe called it- what did he call it? Shit. Jeanne will kill me._ He could hear Rook’s voice now, laughing in the other room. This room was… he searched his frazzled memories… ah yes. The bungalow. He could hear the surf pounding down on the beach. And the sound of someone snoring? Graves turned his head, then wished he hadn’t as the room continued to rotate.

Ah. Nick was in the bed. _Flirtatious little shit._ Graves thought. _But who is that?_ There was another half-buried body in the bed. Or rather- a leg was thrown over Nick. A decidedly muscular pale leg- with a bad tattoo of a sailor girl-

 _Anatoly, you bloody Cossack! Did you fuck my boy? I’ll have you gelded and shipped to the arctic._ Graves tried to muster something- anger? Jealousy? But the throbbing in his head was too much. Coffee first then a tally of what that little slut had been doing while Graves destroyed his suit in the ocean.

Graves forced himself to his feet- coffee. Coffee right now. His knees screeched and he groaned out loud again. Seawater. In the prototype prosthetics. Oh God Simpson was going to kill him if his valet didn’t. He could just imagine it: _Sorry doctor, I know I was only supposed to test these out for standing and walking but instead I did hakas and played rugby in the sand and fell into the ocean. I believe they worked fine but I don’t remember because I, a grown man, got into a drinking contest with men half my age and twice my size._ Why had he done that? What the hell? Over Nick probably. Vague memories of rosy cheeked Nick flirting and smiling at the boys from the team.

 _That stupid boy…_ _Or am I the stupid one? Someone. Someone has been very stupid. There is no other explanation._

The table on the patio was set- his nose followed the smell of coffee and bacon and marijuana- all the things that would save his morning in the shade of the palms. Until he saw Jeanne was there. So he had to pause and gather what little courage he had before stumbling out on his crackling and squealing knees. Jeanne was wearing a pair of sunglasses and a silk robe. She looked ravishing, even tousled and unkempt. She was clearly in a far, far better state than Graves was. She lowered her book and peered at him for a moment… then burst out laughing. Graves sighed… It was going to be one of those.

\---__________________---

“So,” Graves said, rolling a joint and glaring at Nick over the top of his sunglasses. “Since you seem to have such a thing for rugby players,” (Nick at least had the good grace to look remorseful.) “I am going to give you a chance to get at some rugby players.”

Nick looked up, worry in his eyes.

“No! Graves! You’re the only one for me! You’re-” Graves cut the boy off with a snap of his fingers.

“Quiet. You were very nearly gangbanged by the entire side,” he said. “You out-of-control little slut.” He enunciated the last few words carefully. Nick hung his head. 

“They seemed nice…” he muttered. Graves rolled his eyes.  
“You were going to find out exactly how nice they can be,” he said. Nick bit his lip. To Graves’ dismay there were tears forming in those blue eyes.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, waving a finger at the boy. “You want rugby cock you are going to get rugby cock. Let’s see exactly how much you can take.”

Nick’s hands snapped behind him to his bottom.

“No! Graves!”

“Not that,” Graves’ snarled. “No one gets any of that but me. And _only_ me.” He grabbed Nick by the chin and ran a thumb hard over Nick’ plump lower lip. Immediately the boy’s eyes softened and his tongue darted out to touch Graves’ thumb. The big man leaned almost close enough to kiss him.

“You are going to learn a lesson today, little one. I am going to strap that pretty head of yours to the glory hole in the club locker room. Do you know what a glory hole is?”

Nick nodded but didn't seem very certain about it.

“A glory hole is a place where men stick their cocks to let strangers suck them off. There is no glory hole at the club. I run a much nicer place than that. When my players want pussy, they go elsewhere. But I am having one cut- just. for. you.” Graves continued. “Because you apparently cannot keep that mouth of yours off of my boys’ cocks.”

Nick’ eyes were wide and he made a high-pitched fearful whine that curled Graves’s toes- or would have- if he had toes.

“Good boy,” he said. “All your safe words apply. But by god you are going to find out what you were so stupidly asking for.”


End file.
